| Well the days of my riding are over,
|
| And the days of my tramping are done,
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| I’m about as content as a rover
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| Will ever be under the sun;
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| I write, after reading your letter,
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| My mind with old memories rife,
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| And I feel in a mood that had better
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| Not meet the true eyes of the wife.
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| You must never admit a suggestion,
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| That the old things are good to recall;
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| You must never consider the question:
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| 'Was I happier then, after all?'
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| You must banish the old hope and sorrow
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| That make the sad pleasures of life,
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| You must live for To-day and To-morrow
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| If you want to be true to the wife.
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| By-the-way, when you’re writing, remember
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| For you never went drinking with me,
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| And forget our last night of December,
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| Lest our sev’ral accounts disagree.
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| And, for my sake, old man, you had better
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| Avoid the old language of strife,
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| For the technical terms of your letter
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| Will be misunderstood by the wife.
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| Never hint of the girls appertaining
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| To the past, when you’re writing again,
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| For they take such a lot of explaining,
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| And you know how I hate to explain.
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| There are some things, we know to our sorrow,
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| That cut to the heart like a knife,
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| And your past is To-day and To-morrow
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| If you want to be true to the wife.
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| No doubt you are dreaming as I did
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| And going the careless old pace,
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| But my future grows dull and decided,
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| And the world narrows down to the Place.
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| Let it be, if my 'treason's' resented,
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| You may do worse, old man, in your life;
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| Let me dream, too, that I am contented
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| For the sake of a true little wife. |